Deciphering the problem
by Lic94
Summary: After faking both of their deaths, what happens when Sherlock comes to visit Jim, a very changed Jim who doesnt know how to keep himself entertained? Rating just in case.


**Hey guys! This is the first fic I wrote for Sherlock. It's cowriten with the amazing just-extinguishing-boredom. Go and check her tumblr.**

**Hope you like it!**

Jim sat, head firmly down between his shoulders and his eyes closed as he blocked out the world around him. His lithe hands toyed with the blade; the feel of its cool, sharp edge contrasting the comforting softness of the chair he was positioned on. He didn't have long, someone could walk in any second or he could change his mind, try to keep going for another day. Blinking open his eyes his vision fell upon the knife, it shone in the low light, rays from the open office window refracting off it beautifully. Clasping the hilt in his hand he calmly brought it down upon his pale skin, dragging the point from wrist to elbow. He tipped his head to the side, watching fascinated as scarlet drops blossom from the tiny cut. The pain was blissful, he could finally feel something, he finally felt human. He was just sick of it all- having to put on his persona twenty four seven, faking each and every emotion. The unfeelingness was killing him slowly, really he was just speeding up the process.

He was about to dig the knife deepper when a sharp noise made him lift his head. Even in the shadows, he could distingue what seemed to be a tall man.

The man seemed to stand still, frozen on the opposite side of the room for a life time before he stepped forwards smoothly, his face coming into the light and casting dark shadows around him. Jim's sharp eyes latched onto the movement of the figure, momentarily removing the tip of the blade from his skin as he crossed his legs and leaned back into his chair, the knife dangling from his hand, he waited expectantly and rather agitatedly for the intruder to explain his interruption. He stared on with dead eyes.

Blue eyes meet grey, looking at one another from each corner of the room.

"Wasnt staying alive the problem?", asked the intruder

Jim paused, his face remaining blank, not quite neutral but unfeeling. At the man's words he furrowed his brow just slightly. "No, of course not." He shook his head, voice low and calm- thoughtful. "No," he repeated, "/being/ alive is the problem." His movements were unusually small, just a slight flick of his hand dismissively at his words was all that he did, so changed from not long ago when he'd gesticulate wildly, trying to accentuate his madness. "I thought you understood." He drawled, looking back down at the sharp implement with a bored expression lying across his features.

Sherlock finally came into the light. His expression was reflexive, the crease of his brows increasing as seconds passed. Without answering, he approached the mad man, sitting in the char across from him. "Oh, I understand", he finally replied, the corner of his lips quirking up slightly.

He drew up both hands, pressing them together under his chin. The extraordinary pair observed each other, trying to decipher the others thoughts

"Thats seems quite an obvious solution", Sherlock added.

Jim plastered a condescending smile onto his face, tipping his head up to look across at Sherlock. "You think there's a better one?" He questioned, although he'd intended it to sound rhetorical it had in reality left his lips as a defeated inquiry. He twisted the blade between his fingers, the movement appearing to be absentminded but he was aware of every spin and turn that the knife made, imagining the twist of it against his skin, or at least imagining what followed- the blissful silence that would engulf him.

Something glinted in Sherlock eyes, something Jim couldnt quite describe. Slowly, the taller man lean forward, relaxing his arms onto his knees. "Obviosly", he smirked. "That wont solve the real problem... the final problem", he murmured. "In your words, killing yourself would be so... ordinary".

The knife sank into the wood of the chair's arm with a dull thunk as Jim slammed the blade down as he cried out. "Who cares?" He was leaning forwards in his char as he pulled his face into on of anger and annoyance, dragging his head up he looked shot Sherlock the dark look he had formed and ground out, "this /is/ the final problem, the monotony of life and getting through it, you were the best distraction and now you're not even enough to pull my attention away from the emptiness of it all." He held up his hands as if displaying something grand. "What's you're idea then?" He raised a finely shaped eyebrow at his arch-nemesis and the closest thing to an equal that he had.

Sherlock remained unmoved, far from being disturbed by Jim's outburst. Interlacing his fingers, he replied. "But I didnt stop being your distraction. I survived. I tricked you. I beated you, Jim. I am your distraction, just like you are mine", he declared solemny. "Dont you want to know how I did it?", he inquired. "Your men were so easy to trick".

Jim waved a hand tiredly, his face falling back into the nothingness of before, it seemed Sherlock wasn't affected by his instability anymore. "Ball under the armpit to stop pulse in arm, drug to create pale pallor and stiffen muscles and to slow breathing so as to appear dead. And you jumped down into a..." He paused, holding up a finger for a second with a thoughtful expression attached to his face. "landing pad in the back of a truck?" Jim hadn't actually looked over the scene after he'd finished faking his own death, it was really all just poor guesses, thrown together haphazardly. He was tired of this. He was tired of not enjoying Sherlock or his puzzles.

Sherlock inclined his head slightly to one side, observing his nemesis. He didnt show any sign of surprise. In fact, he had been specting that answer. Faking his death had been so simple that he had even hoped John would figured it out. "Oh, but thats not why I tricked you", he said. "I tricked you because for one moment, you really thought I would jump. That I would kill myself".

Jim shrugged exaggeratedly. "Would have been sexier." His thoughts flitted back to that night, he /had/ thought that he was going to jump for real, kill himself, he was after all just like Jim. They were the same apart from the fact that Sherlock actually seemed to feel and that's why Jim had kept him around as an enemy; he needed to exploit that characteristic, make him hurt for it, to prove that it is a flaw and that it makes Sherlock less of an opponent- in actually fact he was trying to prove to himself that he was better off this way. He smiled up at Sherlock. "And for one moment, you really considered it." His voice was quiet and subdued and holding the edge of a taunt behind his words.

Sherlock tried to stay as stiff as posible, silently agreeing to that in his head. He had all planned to the very detail, when he had texted Jim to go to St Barth's roof. But when he had mentionned John, Lestrade, Ms Hudson... he had confirmed his theory: love was such a disadvantage. But he had only thought of that possibility for a split second. "You really think that my brother would told you everything you wanted to know about me without telling me?!

Jim grimaced bitterly. "I forgot to account for a factor." Sentiment- he always over looked it. He pulled a single finger down the visible portion of the blade's edge, still embedded in the chair. Blood sprang up from the small incision and he watched intently as he smoothed the liquid around his fingers.

Sherlock followed the movemment closely with his eyes. Was this really the end of everything? Jim would kill himself, Sherlock will return to normal life, see John and Ms Hudson again, work on cases with Lestrade... No, he told himself. He knew Jim wasnt that easy to beat.

"See you in hell, then?"

"So you're not here to stop me?" Jim asked, his hand pausing on the handle of the knife, fingers drumming against it rhythmically.

Sherlock couldnt repress the grinn of his face. "I dont have to. As soon as you saw me walking through that door, you knew you couldnt do it", he replied.

Jim's face fell. "Fuck you." He muttered, his eyes still transfixed on the now flaking blood. He could still do it- couldn't he? He still waned to, that was for sure. "You have no idea what it's like in my head, I want to do this." He assured, he was stoney cold and still refrained from meeting Sherlock's gaze.

With a neutral expression, Sherlock got up and walked right up to Jim, looking down at him. "I know /exactly/ what it's like in your head. I'm the only one that knows. We are the same, you and I, remember?".

"And I know /I/ wouldnt kill myself on purpose... just like you wont"

Jim looked up, finally meeting Sherlock's eyes with his own darker ones, still missing that spark of light that was needed to illuminate one's face and give them life. "But you feel things." He stated plainly, thinking back to the pool and to Sherlock's expression when he though that John was the killer and when he thought John was going to die- John, John, John. Insufferable really.

Sherlock couldnt help himself, his eyes went round. He hadnt been specting that one, though he recovered quickly. True, he did, John had changed that in him. "And you never think of sentiment... thats your flaw, just like maybe feeling is mine. Still, the balance is equilibrated", he tried to reply in the most natural tone.

"I'm not implying that feeling is a flaw, Sherly." He returned, trying to make his voice jesting and exasperated but he hadn't the drive. He waited, he'd never admitted anything like this to anyone before, he'd never implied jealousy before so he waited, waited for what he didn't know- judgement, amusement, pity; it hardly mattered.

Sherlock's eyes bored into Jim's, thinking, hard. Could he mean...? /He is human, after all/, he thought. /Just like you/, said an annoying voice in his head, a voice that ressembled to much to John's. "I have always thought it was", he admitted. He couldnt believe this was happening. He was showing Jim... understanding.

"Yes, you would think that unless you couldn't." Jim lamented, yanking the knife out of the hard wood and playing with it once more. "I hate it. It's much to boring with out emotions, I don't see why you strive towards it." He gave Sherlock a self deprecating smile. "Oh well." He sang out, bringing the blade back up to his flesh but this time to his neck, the tip just pressing against his jugular vein, threatening to break through.

A sentiment of déjà vu stricked Sherlock, the scene of St Barth's roof playing in his head. Sherlock ran to Jim like an automaton. For once, he wasnt realising what he was doing. Just feeling... feeling that he didnt want to be alone again in the world. As insane as it sounded, he would miss Jim. Fast as light, he stopped Jim's hand with his own, looking at him right in the eyes. "Dont", he said. "I still owe you one"

Jim shook his head, face expressionless and eyes dark, the slight movement caused the knife to draw a drop of blood, foreshadowing what was to come. "You owe me nothing." Jim returned, voice monotone and surprisingly naive despite the serious situation.

Sherlock's brain worked a mile per second, trying to think of something. Quickly. "I do", he said, not really knowing how to continue. "This is your solution for the final problem. Our final problem. You dont know mine", he smiled

Jim paused despite himself, his taught muscles relaxing minutely around the hilt. "Go on." He prompted cautiously, still not moving his blade from it's precarious position against his porcelain skin. Interest leaked into his eyes and they focused on Sherlock.

Breathing again, Sherlock smiled, proud at himself. "You will have to wait. Figure it out, Jim", he ordered, drawing back again. With a last smile, he walked backwards to the door again, his eyes not leaving Jim's. "After all, every old fashioned villain needs a good hero."

Jim cracked a smile, it was small bit it was there, his eyes following Sherlock as he walked away. Jim hesitated, his arm still raised and the knife's pressure still applied. The knife bit through the epithelium of Jim's skin as he pushed down with the barest of force before pulling back and dropping the knife, dropping his head to his hands, lacing his fingers into his charcoal hair, allowing the small streaks of blood to drip into his shirt, staining it. He mumbled something into his hands at Sherlock's retreating form that almost resembled a thank you but it could just as easily been fuck you.

Without turning back, Sherlock smiled, closing the door after exiting the room.


End file.
